


Of Demons

by Bianca Neve (Kathie_snow), filistinist



Series: SPN-Verse [2]
Category: Inception (2010), Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Demon Arthur, Existential Crisis, Hunter Dom, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathie_snow/pseuds/Bianca%20Neve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/filistinist/pseuds/filistinist
Summary: More adventures of demon hunters, the wife of a demon hunter, a demon, and a dimwitted yet evil-minded Aztec godling.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [О демонах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7001737) by [Bianca Neve (Kathie_snow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathie_snow/pseuds/Bianca%20Neve). 



> Author's notes:   
> Crossover with SPN, but just barely.  
> Arthur is a demon, Eames is in an existential crisis, the godling really is pretty dim, and a bit of hack-and-slash.

“Why am I not surprised.” There wasn't even a hint of a question in Arthur's voice, but Eames still gave him a smile.

A very tight one.

Because he wasn't feeling particularly cheerful, not at all. That smile was simply a mask for his nerves.

“No one was asking you!” Dom, on the other hand, wasn't trying to mask anything. Eames could understand his feelings, even though he considered it a rather risky business to talk this way to a demon.

Arthur swung his foot, hitting the back of the couch with his bare heel. He looked just about as relaxed as anyone could possibly be, but Eames took a step forward just in case, which just happened to place him between Arthur and Dom. Arthur's response was a smile and a tilt of the head.

Eames looked away quickly: he didn't need any reminders of what they'd been doing exactly five minutes before Cobb's arrival (and yes, his so-called best friend once again rang the doorbell at the worst possible time!) on the very same couch on the back of which Arthur was now perched. Or why Arthur was wearing Eames's clothes. Or how Eames's cock was still making itself felt with every movement.

“Hey, Eames!” Dom snapped his fingers in front of his nose, distracting him from these tempting thoughts. “My wife's been kidnapped, you know!”

Eames sighed. Cobb hadn't stopped by to see him for a month, and now here you go—surprise!

“What even makes you think that she was kidnapped?” You might suspect him of callousness, but actually, Cobb already spent ten minutes in Eames's living room, but had yet to explain how Mal's planned picnic trip with her college friends somehow became a kidnapping. Mal had made the plans for this trip several months ago (long before her “death,” which everyone was now pretending never happened), and the detailed note that she'd left gave no hint of Dom's abduction theory, either.

So, in Eames's opinion, his friend simply had a few screws loose—not so strange considering recent events. But Dom would have been better off seeing a psychologist, instead of bursting into Eames's house while he was busy making love. Especially if he was going to screech “Mal was kidnapped by demons, Eames, I can feel it in my heart!” and demand that they immediately drive off to some Lake Podunk.

“She didn't write this note,” said Dom, suddenly quiet. “I swear, Eames, I swear—she didn't write this! The paper smells like sulfur.”

Eames shivered—Dom sounded just too sure, and there was too much hidden despair in his voice. Eames hesitated, but took the note, even though he'd already examined it very carefully the first time—but what if he'd missed something? The faded and yellowed sheet of paper had “Salton Sea Hotel” printed across the top. Eames had been to the lake, but didn't know this hotel. And that's all: the handwriting was still Mal's, the words still formed perfectly sensible sentences about watering flowers, and finishing beans in tomato sauce, and that there was likely to be no cell phone reception at her location. And Eames couldn't say that he corresponded with Mal frequently enough—never, actually—to notice inconsistencies, if there were any. He brought the sheet of paper up to his nose and inhaled deeply, but couldn't catch any sulfur smell.

But maybe he was just used to sulfur? He couldn't smell it on Arthur, either...

“So did you call her friends?” he asked, because Dom wasn't stupid, but he _was_ agitated, and in that state the obvious solutions sometimes don't seem so obvious.

“I only know the Ramirezes, and I did call them—it goes straight to voicemail,” said Dom irritably.

Just as Mal had warned.

Well, they couldn't have _all_ been abducted by demons—together with their picnic baskets and tents?

“She wouldn't have left without waiting for me. Hell, Eames, I don't even know the exact place where they were planning to go! She was supposed to wait for me to come back and then give me the coordinates, and she didn't take her green shorts, and didn't close the blinds in the bedroom, and she left an unfinished glass of milk! I remember her, I remember the way she was when...” Dom glanced sideways at Arthur and paused. “She left through the back door, where there wasn't any salt, and the note smells like sulfur.”

This whole thing smelled like schizophrenia, to be honest, even considering that demons were very much a real thing. But there was already doubt creeping into Eames's mind.

“Arthur?” he asked quietly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but didn't bother pretending that he didn't understand the request. He held out his hand, and Eames placed the note into it, ignoring the disapproval which was coming off Dom in waves. But Dom said nothing, which said volumes about the state he was in.

Arthur read the note, flipped the paper over, peered at the blank side, read the text again. Sniffed it, as if trying to catch that mythical sulfur smell—and his eyebrows drew together in a frown.

Eames's heart plunged down into his stomach, or even lower. Meanwhile, Arthur ripped off a corner of the note and stuck it in his mouth.

“Hey,” said Dom, almost in a whisper.

Arthur slid off the back of the couch down to the floor, and looked up at Eames, completely serious and without a shadow of his previous humorous irritation. But no, Eames just could not believe that Dom could pull some demon abduction story out of thin air—and his wife really does end up abducted by demons!

“You're kidding me...” he began.

But then Dom's phone rang. Eames knew that ringtone, it was Mal calling, and he almost laughed with relief. Now Mal will say that she got there okay, Dom will go home, and Eames will celebrate by drinking a beer, or even something stronger.

“Mal?” Dom yelled into the phone. “Mal, where are you?”

At least he had the sense to put it on speaker, so a moment later Mal's hollow voice came out of the receiver.

“Dom?” her voice was definitely shaking. “Darling, are you there? Darling, will you come get me?...”

Eames felt shivers the size of chubby mice run down his spine.

“Of course I'll get you!” Dom agreed right away. “Just don't worry, I'll come get you right now. But... where?”

Mal sobbed loudly.

“It's some horrible place. I think it's called Salton Sea.” Eames remembered that that's exactly what was printed on the note. “He... He'll kill me if you don't come before midnight. He's really scary. Before midnight today.” Her voice grew thin and pitiful. Eames glanced at the clock: it was barely five. “And he has... he also has conditions.”

“What conditions, Mal?” Dom choked out. He was holding up well so far, but Eames put a hand on his shoulder, just in case.

“Disgusting ones!” Mal burst into sobs.

-~-~-~-

“He... it wants me to sacrifice a baby.” Dom sounded completely bewildered, as if he kept expecting someone to yell “just kidding!” and clap their hands. Eames could barely believe his own ears as well—he'd thought that all this baby-on-the-altar stuff was ancient history, and that modern demons didn't mess with it.

“What would a demon want with a baby?” he turned to Arthur, but the other only shrugged his shoulders.

“Me. Sacrifice a baby... butcher it...” Dom kept muttering over and over.

“So what's the problem?” asked Arthur.

“What?” Dom was taken aback.

Eames though... he knew exactly what he meant, but stayed silent.

“That creature said that it will return your wife, if you sacrifice a baby,” Arthur shrugged again and sat on the back of the couch. “It's not that hard to find a human baby.”

“We will not be sacrificing any babies, Arthur,” Eames cut him off while Dom's face was flushing with blood and he was still searching for an appropriate answer.

“He's better off sacrificing someone else's baby,” Arthur twitched a finger in Dom's direction, “rather than his own.”

It took a couple of seconds for Eames to process what he'd said, about as long as it took for Dom to explode:

“What did you say?!”

“I said this problem is easy to...”

“What did you say?! My wife is pregnant?!”

Mal was pregnant? This was shocking news, especially in light of unfolding events, and Eames had absolutely no intention of asking why Arthur knew about this and Dom didn't. As for the fact that Arthur suggested they sacrifice babies—Eames had no doubt that he was serious. He tried to keep himself free of illusions, even when it horrified him.

“We need to find these Ramirezes,” Eames muttered.

And almost bit his tongue when Dom grabbed him by the shoulders and started shaking him, howling into his face:

“My pregnant wife is in the hands of a monster! We only have a few hours left! We have to go get her immediately! Immediately, Eames!”

And, strangely enough, this was actually the most reasonable plan.

-~-~-~-

He managed to send Dom off to his own house for half an hour, to gather everything they would need for the trip. Eames simply pulled a bag with his clothes from under the bed, and another one with his weapons from the hidden compartment in the wall, and went to take a shower. He was feeling strange, as if stunned: he should have been worrying about Mal, but instead, all kinds of stupid thoughts kept popping into his head.

Why didn't he sense the sulfur smell?

Has Arthur gotten into him so deeply that Eames was now completely blind? That he didn't see demons where they were obvious to Cobb? Did he hesitate, even if for a split second, when Arthur offered to buy the kidnapper off with a human life, the life of an innocent child? Yes, Eames felt horror and revulsion, but just for a moment—didn't he consider that option? Did he reject it because it was inhumane, or because he knew that a monster would not keep its word anyway?

Eames threw his t-shirt down on the floor, blankly staring at himself in the mirror, shower forgotten.

What the hell was happening to him?

“Eames?” Arthur wrapped his arms around his waist, looking at him over his shoulder, and his eyes met Eames's in their reflection. He was almost expecting Arthur's eyes to turn black any second, but his irises stayed the same brown color, and Eames lowered his gaze. Arthur's fingers covered the symbols and runes tattooed on his stomach. The protective sigils... against demons.

Against possession.

But what if they didn't help?

“Did it smell of sulfur?” Eames asked. “The note?”

“No.” Arthur kissed his shoulder, nipped the skin with his teeth. Not lustfully, just tenderly and carefully, but Eames kept thinking—how often did Arthur lie to him? “Eames, you shouldn't get mixed up in this, it's none of your business.”

Probably not too often. Arthur liked being straightforward much more.

Eames turned around, turning his back to the mirror and standing face to face with Arthur.

“They're my friends. Why didn't it smell like sulfur?”

“Because it's not a demon.”

Straightforward.

Or cold-blooded, depending on how you looked at it.

But when Arthur reached out and kissed Eames on the chin, it wasn't cold at all—it was hot, as hot as Eames imagined the flames of hell must be. Arthur's hands slid down to his hips, fingers digging into his skin, and Eames should have been thinking about Mal and how to save her, but the only thing he managed to think about was... something else entirely.

“No,” he forced himself to breathe out. “Now is not the best time.”

Arthur stepped back, taking his hands off him.

“Why do you need all this?” he asked, annoyed. “That creature is dangerous.”

“Dangerous to Mal?”

“Dangerous to you.”

Eames didn't bother repeating the line about his friends—Arthur wouldn't understand anyway—or saying that he's not afraid of any monsters, even the most dangerous ones—it would have been a lie.

“I need to take a shower, Dom will be back soon.”

Would Arthur tell him if he asked? Would he tell him about the creature, would he tell the truth, or would he play some game? Eames didn't know, but it was worth a try.

“Arthur...”

“I'm coming with you,” Arthur said, and turned around to leave the bathroom, as if graciously allowing Eames his privacy. “I'm curious. And maybe there's some profit in it.”

“Dom will be against it.”

“Then he should stay at home and make himself useful by finding a baby,” replied Arthur from the bedroom.

Eames held his breath, then exhaled slowly. He stared at his tattoos for a few moments, as if trying to make sure that they were whole and undamaged. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his face into a smile, working on producing his usual slightly sarcastic, slightly foolish facial expression.

“Admit it, babe, you're just worried about me,” he yelled.

He turned on the shower so that he wouldn't have to hear the answer.

-~-~-~-

Strangely enough, Dom didn't throw a fit. On the contrary, he calmly got into Eames's car, tossed his bag into the footwell, and buckled up. Arthur had already made himself comfortable in the back seat, with his tablet and neat little black notebook. Eames could have said something upbeat about Dom finally coming to terms with his attraction to Arthur, but the truth is, it was most likely nothing more than plain old desperate hope for any help he could get.

Eames decided not to disillusion him. Even though he knew perfectly well that free assistance from Arthur was a vain hope in Dom's case, and that Arthur's fee wasn't always affordable.

Although why Arthur was actually coming along, Eames had no idea. Was he really planning to make a profit, or keeping an eye on Eames, or doing it for some entirely personal demonish reasons?

When Eames had come out of the bathroom, Arthur was sprawled on the bed in one of his well-tailored suits, writing in his notebook.

“Contracts, darling?” Eames had asked, toweling his hair dry and trying not to think about his feelings for that notebook, which contained the souls of tens or hundreds of people.

“Work,” Arthur confirmed calmly.

“You were saying that it's not a demon?”

It's not like Eames had any other sources of information right then.

Arthur finished writing a sentence and closed the notebook, relaxed and unhurried, but Eames was too used to this to get mad over such details. Arthur valued his business, and was indifferent to Cobb, at best.

“No, and I still think that you should stay home. You'll get nothing out of this business but trouble.”

“Some of us have principles,” Eames wanted this to sound sarcastic, as if he wasn't being serious, but Arthur had been able to see right through him for a long time.

“I have principles, too,” he said, and stretched with his whole body. “I could...”

He turned onto his side and smiled at Eames.

“You could what, my love?” Eames automatically took a step towards the mirror, where he'd hidden a bag of salt and a vial of holy water.

“I could make it so that you don't go.”

Eames decided to take another tiny step. But Arthur rolled off the bed and stood up, and Eames stood frozen in place.

“You could, but you won't.”

“Why not?”

“First of all,” Eames held up a finger, “I'll get back at you.”

“I could erase your memory.” Arthur was suddenly very close, but Eames didn't move. Sometimes there was something hellhound-like in Arthur (not that Eames had ever met a hellhound face to face, god forbid), some kind of hunting instinct, a strange and frightening insistence, and Eames knew for a fact that in moments like these he must not show even a tiny bit of fear.

“And second, why would you bother?” he held up another finger. “Even if this demon-or-not eats me, that would hardly upset you. And you're interested in it.”

Pushing Arthur out of his way, Eames walked to the closet and took out a couple of clean t-shirts. As he dithered between the dark green one and the gray one, Arthur stayed silent.

“It _would_ upset me,” he finally said. “And it would ruin my plans. And it's _not_ a demon.”

Eames clutched the t-shirt—the dark green one—hard enough to make his knuckles go white, but his voice was still light:

“If you stopped with your scheming...”

But right at that moment, there was a piercing shout from the street:

“Eames! Time to go!” Dom had arrived, and Eames quickly grabbed his bags and ran out of the apartment, because Dom was perfectly capable of bellowing until the neighbors called the police, and instead of saving Mal they would get no further that day than the local police station.

Arthur, of course, was already in the car when he got there, the little shit.

-~-~-~-

“So, you're going to share some valuable information after all,” Eames adjusted the rear view mirror and smiled at Arthur's reflection. “What is this creature that made you condescend to get into my old clunker, huh babe?” Eames yelped embarrassingly loud and jerked his hands off the steering wheel, which just gave him an electric shock. “Okay, fine, I'll save it for the bedroom. Although you secretly like it when I...”

“Eames, I'm begging you!” Cobb grimaced. “We don't even have a plan yet, now is not the time for flirting.”

He was clearly trying to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control, and Eames thought it was best to say nothing, and started the car instead. The GPS was telling him that Salton Sea Hotel, located on the shore of the lake with the same name, was three hours and fifty-four minutes away, without traffic.

“This creature is not a demon, because it's been around for even longer than demons.” With a magnanimous gesture, Arthur put his notebook away in a suit pocket which shouldn't have been large enough to hide so much as a lighter, and buckled up. “A visiting deity, starving for sacrifices, and now this sudden windfall.”

A deity? Holy shit! Eames mentally ran through his arsenal, to see if there was anything in it that would help dispatch an actual, real-life deity. He didn't think of anything, but he did realize quite clearly: they were suicidal idiots for throwing themselves into this mess with no preparation.

But while this 'deity' had a hostage, they didn't have much choice.

“Back when the hotel was being built, the owner stinted on paying his workers and hired illegal migrants,” Arthur continued in the meantime. “And they brought their patron god with them. Not that it helped them any,” he smirked.

“Is that sympathy for a colleague?” Eames couldn't resist.

“We're not colleagues.”

“Then how do you know all this?”

He couldn't help noticing the quick, worried glance that Dom threw at the mirror. Arthur sighed.

“I looked it up on the internet, Eames, while you were in the shower.” He tapped a finger against the screen of the tablet. “Very useful thing, I heard that even humans use it. The history of the Salton Sea Hotel is described in detail, including the dead workers and local residents. Well, that was before the city was abandoned.”

Eames tried not to blush, but judging by Arthur's little smile in the mirror, he wasn't very successful. Well, whatever, it was Dom who was supposed to do his homework, Eames was just driving the car and providing additional firepower!

“But you're sure that it's some kind of god and not just a jumped-up demon. So then, is it realistic to try to bargain with it?”

“Perhaps, with a baby,” Arthur was quick to respond. “But I don't think that it will keep its word. Considering that it usually eats people.”

Arthur was hiding something. Eames could feel it with his gut, Arthur was just too certain for a couple of articles found on sensationalist websites.

“Would it be realistic for a demon to try to bargain with it?”

Arthur hemmed.

“Actually, it eats demons too.”

Eames almost hit the breaks. Charming news, better and better every minute, and this was way beyond 'I just googled it.'

“Arthur, you knew what this was even before that phone call. Would it be so hard for you to just tell us everything?”

“Asshole, my pregnant wife is there!” Dom butted in.

Arthur smiled even more unpleasantly and leaned forward, ruffling the hair at the back of Eames's head with his fingers. An unexpectedly intimate and wildly inappropriate gesture, considering the circumstances, but Eames suddenly remembered that they never did finish the... conversation they were having before Dom showed up.

Even anger could not distract him from indecent thoughts.

“There must be a reason why it stole Mal,” Eames made an effort to concentrate.

“Of course there must be.” Arthur leaned back in his seat again. “And maybe your buddy will even tell you what it is,” he purred. “Since he's so worried about his pregnant wife. I'm not the biggest liar here, _babe_.”

Eames hit the breaks after all.

-~-~-~-

“What the fuck, Dom?” asked Eames, because Dom was in no hurry to deny the accusation.

On the contrary, he stared fixedly at the dashboard and became red and pale in turns, and it was all very cute, but it drove Eames nuts to be the only moron who didn't understand what was going on, or what he was being pulled into against his will.

“So now you believe everything that a demon tells you?” Dom asked bitterly.

It was a good question, but it wasn't Eames's biggest concern at the moment.

“You know who kidnapped Mal, and why?” he asked bluntly. “Is this true?”

“I was going to tell you on the way there.” Dom wasn't looking at him. “But that's not the point. The point is that you listen to a demon.”

Eames thought that it was _very much_ the point, and if, somewhere in the depth of his soul, the fact that he trusted a demon also worried him, he wasn't about to spend time pondering this right now.

“Start talking,” he advised, and started the car again.

Dom sighed heavily and started talking.

And told them how three weeks ago he agreed to a 'small job,' but decided not to call Eames, and to just do it alone. He didn't explain the reason for this reckless behavior, but he blushed so eloquently that Eames figured it out on his own.

It was Arthur, of course. Eames hadn't pressured Dom, but who would have thought that he would get a sudden urge for heroics?

So then, Dom had agreed to do the job. At first glance, it all sounded perfectly harmless for an experienced hunter: a poltergeist in an abandoned hotel. A new owner re-opened the construction site after twenty years of abandonment and started building with zeal, planning to create a tourist base and spa before the start of next year. Unfortunately, the unusually high casualty rate among the construction workers put an end to his bold plans: three of the workers snuffed it in the very first week, and in highly suspicious circumstances, too. Their naked, bloodless, and severely gnawed bodies were found on the large concrete slab in front of the main entrance, in the same exact spot as the victims of twenty years ago. The security cameras showed nothing whatsoever, the police were stuck with no evidence and were sluggishly regurgitating the facts of the investigation (their main theory was still pumas, bears, and other animals), and the superstitious owner hired Dominick. In any case, the police closed off the building and forbade any further construction work until the end of the investigation.

Dom had figured that the job would be a piece of cake. He arrived on the scene and immediately got to work, studying the materials in the local library as he went along, questioning local residents (sort of local—the hotel was on what was now the abandoned outskirts of the city), and digging around on the internet.

Back in the day, the Salton Sea Hotel really was built by the hands of cheap illegal workers, on mysteriously purchased national park land, and it was bound to become a tourist magnet, and so on and so forth, or so the property's owner promised in colorful brochures. Picturesque views, anti-aging and health-restoring treatments, luxurious rooms—and comparatively low construction costs. Salton Sea had a good chance of breathing new life into the slowly-dying little town. The town residents were already rubbing their hands together in anticipation of the coming boom, when the owner, who was so generous with his promises, perished at the construction site, and became the first of several victims. Nothing resembling a ritual murder, just a bucket of cement that fell down at the wrong time, but it was exactly this that started a string of unfortunate events, which Dom had been determined to unravel.

Because all the evidence pointed at the previous owner. His heirs continued the business, and so Dom had to crawl through all the goddamn basements and attics of the partially constructed building, looking for something, anything at all.

It was only through pure dumb luck that he found a ring which was stuck in long-dried and crumbling concrete. Dom spent a couple of hours melting the ring in a fire, and drank a bottle of beer to celebrate yet another victory. But the very next morning the naked corpse of a construction worker was lying in state on the concrete slab.

By the end of the week every single worker had quit, the 'thing' made a nice little snack of the sheriff, and Dom decided it would be best to hightail it home before the police—or the poltergeist—became interested in him.

It was only after he got home that Cobb figured it made sense to ask his father-in-law for help, and to rummage through his library. Mal's father was in possession of extensive knowledge, and an even more extensive library. It was one of his books that shed light on what was happening: Salton Sea Hotel had been taken over by some South American god (or demon, it wasn't that easy to tell them apart), whose name Dom could not pronounce even if his life depended on it.

“And it didn't occur to you to call me?” asked Eames as he tossed his bag down on the bed.

It took Dom the entire four hours of the drive to the Salton Sea to tell this enthralling story, because he kept getting sidetracked on the details of his adventures and descriptions of the hotel. Arthur was quiet the entire time, and this silence worried Eames more and more. Arthur wasn't one of those people who adore long car rides in the company of hunters with an arsenal of anti-demon weapons under the seat. But Arthur was silent and kept his thoughts to himself. Whereas Dom was becoming more and more worked up by the minute, so that by the end of the trip he was ready to do hand-to-hand combat with the entire Aztec pantheon.

Eames couldn't believe Dom had gotten mixed up in such a dangerous business, and without telling him anything, to boot. Ancient deities were much worse assholes than good old Christian demons, if these things could even be compared. At least demons could be hurt with holy water, and their goals were simple and easy to understand for the most part. Whereas gods and other types of pagan monsters usually ended up being, for lack of a better word, psychos.

Bloodthirsty psychos, Eames corrected himself.

“I didn't think I'd ever have to go back there again,” said Dom mournfully.

He'd rented the room next door, but was in no hurry to go there—on the contrary, he dropped his bag near the door and plopped down on the edge of the bed. He'd been against going to a hotel and was raring to go directly to the site, but Eames managed to persuade him to take a time-out and at least try to come up with a plan.

In the meantime, Arthur made himself comfortable in a shabby armchair, put his feet up on the coffee table, and, judging by his careless demeanor, had no intention of participating in the creation of said plan.

“Okay then, first things first, Dom,” said Eames with false cheer, demonstratively _not looking_ at Arthur. “How do we kill this thing?”

“I found descriptions of many methods,” Dom perked up, “but they were all basically tied to priests, sacrifices, and rituals, which we most likely won't be able to reproduce.” He glanced sideways at Arthur, although he was unlikely to be an expert in pagan rituals, his vast experience notwithstanding. But fortunately, Dom went on: “There is a fairly simple ritual for expelling this creature from the body.”

“It has a body?” Eames was surprised.

“It can possess people when... well, to eat. So if we exorcise it, it'll just possess someone else.” Dom paused. “What do you think it wants with Mal? Do you think it means to... eat her?”

“No one is going to eat anyone.” And wouldn't Eames have liked to feel as sure as he sounded. “We'll save her. What I want to know is how that piece of shit even managed to abduct her, and what for.”

Arthur cleared his throat loudly. This was the first time he made any sound, so both Eames and Dom turned towards him sharply, and Eames started to get a bad feeling.

“It already said everything on its own,” Arthur declared.

He looked extremely condescending, and okay, Eames might have missed some important information, but the sarcasm wasn't helpful.

“And what did it say?”

“It said that it wants a sacrifice,” Arthur explained patiently. “When it just arrived here, there was a ton of food. Then the outskirts of the city became completely empty, the city receded, and I doubt the poor thing was able to get anything more than a couple of curious teenagers every few years, or an industrial photographer, even more rarely. And most likely nothing at all, since it hasn't made itself known for twenty years.”

“You're not commiserating with this thing, are you?” Eames asked suspiciously.

But what Arthur was saying made sense, once he thought about it.

“As _if_ ,” protested Arthur. “ _Not_ my problem.”

“I still don't understand what this has to do with Mal.” Dom, as usual, couldn't stay on the sidelines for long. Arthur, however, just stared at him as if he was being an idiot, and shook his head. “What was the point of kidnapping her?”

“Your partner,” Arthur said to Eames, “Must have attracted the creature's attention, and managed to leave some item in its lair. Most likely something tied to his wife. From there, it's not that hard to figure out: why go hungry, waiting for the occasional handouts, when you can find a hostage and get food delivered right to your home. It's exactly what I would do,” he informed them, then clarified, “if I were to feed on people.”

It was actually a big relief to know that Arthur didn't feed on people.

“Dom is not that stupid, he wouldn't leave one of his things in a hotel with a poltergeist.” Arthur only smiled, but Dom... Dom was in no hurry to deny any of these speculations. “Dom, you're not that stupid, are you?”

“I was almost nabbed by the police, okay?” Dom burst out. “I only noticed on my way back that my pocket was ripped.”

Okay. _Okay_. Now was not the time for yelling and recriminations, and Eames wasn't even going to ask what Dom had in that pocket.

Arthur smiled at Eames—softly and almost tenderly.

“Your partner forgot to mention another important thing—the creature is afraid of fire. That is, in order to kill it, all you have to do is set fire to that dump, and we can go home.” Arthur made it sound as if the trip was a boring picnic to which the others had dragged him practically by force. “This plan is as good as any other.”

“We will not be setting fire to that 'dump' while my wife is in there!” Dom was justifiably upset.

“Or we can steal a baby and hope that the well-fed cannibal godling will become nice and do anything you ask,” Arthur went on, instead of arguing with Dom.

“I!...”

“There will be no human sacrifices!” said Eames firmly. “And no arson, and we all need to calm down and think.”

To be fair, Arthur was already calm, but Eames decided not to draw attention to this. There were only one and a half hours left until the time specified by the demon, and they still had no plan, and no baby, and not even a reserve of composure.

“I will not permit you to harm my wife!” If there was anyone who could use some composure, it was definitely Dom, but it's not like Eames didn't understand how he felt.

“You're managing it perfectly fine on your own,” replied Arthur without even a hint of malice or irritation, but for some reason, his tone only added fuel to the fire. Dom turned bright red and opened his mouth wide, no doubt to burst out with insults and threats.

At least he didn't make a grab for his weapons. Most likely because he forgot all about his gun—but even so.

“Calm down, Dom!” Eames repeated insistently.

While Dom struggled to find the right words, still red and choking, Arthur shrugged and said:

“Maybe we should try negotiating with it, for starters?”

And even if 'negotiating' with a cannibal godling hardly sounded like a good plan, it was still their best plan so far, for lack of any better.

-~-~-~-

They didn't drive up to the hotel until it was dark, in spite of Dom's whining. It was outright idiotic to run around in broad daylight right in front of the police, who had fixated on these mass murders and were on high alert. And the case must have had the FBI on it for quite a while now (it was a miracle that some intrepid agent hadn't yet found his way to the Cobb residence), so waving around fake badges seemed risky as well.

“Did you say there were security cameras?” whispered Eames, pressing himself into the chain link fence.

He doubted that anyone from the police was guarding the crime scene at night. Even if anyone had been sent on such a dangerous assignment, you could bet that the boys had ditched the cursed hotel and were sitting it out in their squad car somewhere five blocks away. There was deathly silence beyond the fence, uninterrupted even by the rustle of grass or bushes.

“Don't worry about that,” said Arthur. “What you should worry about is the fact that we've crossed into the monster's territory—its boundary was along the road.”

Arthur wasn't even trying to hide or keep to the shadows, but instead stood with his arms crossed, peering into the darkness, and Eames had a persistent feeling that something was wrong. The feeling was so strong that he couldn't even manage to be properly scared for Mal. He'd worked with Dom for many years, and knew the feeling: a drawing in, a tightness in his stomach and a tension in his chest, a 'job'. He'd known Arthur even longer than that, and got involved in his dealings frequently enough, or got Arthur involved in his own, but what he felt at those times was fundamentally different from a 'job'. But now all these feelings were mixed up, because Dom and Arthur had no business being together, at the same place and at the same time.

An unpleasant smile played on Arthur's lips, his eyes glittered with curiosity (or maybe it just seemed that way to Eames), and Eames couldn't even tell which feeling was overwhelming him right now: excitement, horror, or anger. Mal's life was at stake, after all. Mal's life, and Dom's—real, living people, not one of Arthur's amusements. And the fact that normally Arthur could not be lured into such amusements for love or money, made everything so much worse.

Eames checked his protective amulets one more time, then his weapons, tried to repeat to himself any incantations that applied to the situation. He'd long since lost the stupid habit he had in his youth of charging into monsters' lairs with no preparation.

“Okay,” he started saying, “I'll go...” Arthur's chin jerked up as if he was sniffing the air. His eyelashes trembled as he turned his face toward the dark bulk of the building, silhouetted against the sky beyond the trees. “What?”

“It's in there,” Arthur said.

And stepped into the darkness without any warning. Dom, who'd been quiet all this time, elbowed Eames in the side and swore, and Eames barely had time to grab his arm before he rushed off after Arthur.

“Careful,” Eames whispered. Then whisper-screamed “Arthur!”

No response, only the bushes rustling faintly, but Eames wasn't sure it was Arthur rather than the wind—or the damn Aztec demon, for that matter.

“Let me go!” Dom was twitching.

But Eames had no intention of letting him stomp off into the thick of it—especially since they did have some sort of plan, after all.

“Let's go together,” he said firmly.

The bushes felt dead and waxy to the touch, like decorations, not real plants, and the air was faintly musty and bitter. Or maybe Eames's paranoia was starting to get the better of him. But Dom did quiet down next to him (though he was still eager to throw himself into the fray) and they both tried to tread as lightly as possible, afraid of disturbing the silence. Just a few paces, but it seemed like hours passed before they stepped out onto the broad, open platform in front of the main entrance. It was a new moon, so only the tiny, dim stars were shining in the sky. The light didn't reach the ground, and the dark, still hotel towered over them like a sinister skeleton.

Eames could've sworn that he could feel an aftertaste of the supernatural on his tongue.

“Arthur,” he called quietly, but even a whisper sounded loud and too sharp in the musty, still air. The silence pressed in on his ears, and for a moment Eames felt honest-to-goodness panic.

The only thing missing was some ominous (or epic) music.

And just then, the lights came on.

Eames hissed, covered his eyes with one hand and pulled out a gun with the other, and felt Dom's startled twitch next to him. He would have to aim using sound, but there was still only silence around them.

Not that Eames would have fired—he was afraid of hitting Arthur.

“Hello, dear husband.”

A stunned inhalation, and Dom practically jumped, bumping into Eames. Eames blinked rapidly to clear his vision—and then regretted it immediately. He really didn't want to see this.

Mal was standing on the steps of the unfinished porch. Her posture was weirdly stiff and tense, the smile on her face seemed painted on, like a manikin's, and the shiny fabric wrapped around her body (was that a curtain?) should have been ridiculous, but somehow looked creepy instead.

“I can hear your little heart beating, like a rabbit's.”

The voice was Mal's, definitely, but this _creature_ bore no resemblance to Malory Cobb. In fact, _Eames_ probably looked more like Cobb's wife than did this _creature_. The demon fussed with its curtain flirtatiously and took a tiny step forward, Eames's eyes flicked over the platform...

“Arthur,” he said, evenly and quietly. _Very_ evenly and _very_ quietly. “Step away from there.”

A lamp above Mal's head was flooding the area with bright light, and now that Eames's eyes had adjusted, the entire horrifying scene, in all its glory, was revealed to his gaze. Arthur was there. Arms crossed over his chest, he propped his backside against an enormous concrete block and examined Mal with a look of genuine interest on his face. His eyes were black, his pose just about as casual and relaxed as it could get, and for a moment Eames had the feeling that he and Cobb should just get out of there, maybe stop by again some other time.

But only for a moment.

There was a bloodied corpse lying on the concrete block, the scraps of cloth on it just barely recognizable as a police uniform, its arm dangling over the side right next to Arthur's hip. Arthur was entirely undisturbed by its proximity.

“What happened to my wife?” Dom snapped out of his stupor.

Eames stepped forward, just in case, and gripped his gun a little tighter.

“Arthur,” he said again.

He had no intention of addressing 'pseudo-Mal.' She'll tell them all about it herself anyway, oh yes, no demon could resist a chit-chat with such bait on the hook.

“I'm perfectly fine, baby.” 'Mal' twirled in place coyly, showing off her new outfit. “Too bad you missed dinner, though. We could've arranged a romantic evening. Just the two of us, of course.”

“Without the infant sacrifice?” said Arthur with such sarcasm that even the demon flinched. “What kind of romance would it be without a proper meal?”

“What are you babbling...?” Eames took another step forward, because now 'Mal's' attention was drawn away from Dom and towards Arthur.

“Bring my wife back or you'll be sorry!” screamed Dom.

He should've figured from the start that negotiating wouldn't work out. They would've been better off searching for a shaman, for all the good it was likely to do.

“Could this garbage even compare to a real sacrifice?” Arthur's voice was saccharine-sweet. He drummed his fingers on the corpse's protruding arm, and Eames felt a chill run over his skin. “It's unbelievable, what you have to content yourself with...”

“Arthur, stop it!”

The bushes rustled, there was an unpleasant squeaking sound in the air, and it got harder to breathe—not that Eames was breathing easy up until then. And he couldn't even begin to guess what Arthur was getting at, but he knew for a fact that it would end in bloodshed. They were badly prepared, and someone, maybe all of them, would pay for it.

“What do you want with my wife?” Dom tried to twist out of Eames's grasp, but he had a death-grip on his sleeve. “Leave her alone!”

“Well, some people have to take what they're given,” Arthur explained, “Too bad there won't be any more suckers like you around here for a long while. I guess it'll chow down on your darling wife, and then it's mice and small birds all the way...”

The noise became so loud that Eames's ears started to hurt, but that was the least of his worries. Not while Arthur was doing god only knows what, Dom was wiggling and struggling out of his grip, and the demon now seemed to be enraged, and if this was all part of some plan, then the plan was completely and totally retarded!

“Though I suppose you can't last long on small birds,” Arthur concluded with mock sadness.

Bang! Eames cried out loudly when Arthur's body suddenly rose in the air and cracked against the concrete block with such force that there shouldn't have been a single unbroken bone or undamaged organ in it. And Eames didn't even have time to form a single thought, or even feel fear, or anything—his arm snapped up as if of its own volition, and his finger pressed the trigger.

The shot drowned out the noise of the blood rushing in his head.

A tiny black hole appeared in Mal's forehead. For a long moment nothing was happening, except for a ringing, horror-filled silence, then Mal's body swayed...

“I'll kill you,” Dom breathed out. His gun was now pointing straight at Eames. “I'll kill you!”

Eames just stood there, as if petrified. He... he shot Mal! He shot a human being! He... how could he?... How could this have happened? God, what happened to Arthur?!

“I eat your kind, too” hissed 'Mal'.

Arthur sat up, then got to his feet, and Eames followed his movements with wide-open eyes, even though there was a gun pressed right against his chin. And yes, in the state he was in, Dom could shoot him, could fucking kill Eames right where he stood, but he couldn't manage to force himself to worry about that. Arthur raised his arm and touched the back of his head, then grimaced as he examined the blood on his fingers.

He took a few steps forward and stopped.

“Mal,” groaned Dom.

“I think we need a time-out,” said Arthur.

And everything went dark.

-~-~-~-

“...no! No!” Dom's voice seemed to reach him through cotton-stuffed ears, and Eames raised his arms and squeezed his head in his hands to try to relieve his dizziness.

“Take me back there! Take me back, or I'll kill you!”

The gun was clicking, and clicking, and clicking, and Eames couldn't seem to blink his confusion away, and it seemed that it was taking just as long for Dom to get that his weapon was not on his side.

“Settle down,” said Arthur.

Eames inhaled sharply, and the room around him—the same hotel room that they left only half an hour ago—took on a frightening, ominous clarity. Dom was still attempting to fire off a shot. Arthur stood across from him, fresh as a daisy, his suit clean and pressed, his hair once again immaculately styled. Eames wanted to yell at him.

Mostly as an aftereffect of fear.

“You won't do anything to me,” Arthur said. “You need to save your wife.”

“How will I save her now?! Maybe the demon's already killed her!” Dom threw the gun in his rage, but it missed Arthur, of course. “We need to go back! We broke the deal, and now it will... it will..”

“Oh sure, and deprive itself of the only available body?” Arthur commented skeptically. “Eames,” he glanced at Eames quickly, “Eames?”

_'Eames' what? 'Eames' what?!_ Eames needed some time alone, but of course, _of course_ , no one would leave him alone, not now.

Dom started laughing. Loud, desperate laughter on the edge of hysteria, or maybe far past that edge, because it was his wife who now had a hole in her head. Not really a cause for laughter, but Eames couldn't blame him.

Because he was the one who shot Mal.

He shot Mal, and what would happen to her now when... if... they managed to exorcise the demon?

“Traitor!” Dom's laughter had broken off abruptly, as if he'd choked. His words were quiet but struck right at the heart. “Traitor! How could you? Eames, how could you shoot her, shoot Mal?”

“That wasn't Mal,” Eames replied in a whisper.

True, the _body_ was not Mal, but Eames himself found it hard to believe what he was saying with such feigned assurance. Because even if the demon had taken over Mal, she was still somewhere inside, was still waiting to be rescued. God, Eames prayed, let her be there waiting, don't let her be dead from his bullet, or even long before they even arrived at the fucking Salton Sea. Eames didn't know which would be worse—either way he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

“You shot Mal!” Dom didn't seem to be listening to him. He took a step closer to Eames and clenched his fists. “You shot her _over a demon_!”

“I wasn't shooting at Mal. And she... it... attacked... she attacked Arthur.”

“A demon! Mal is held hostage by a monster, and you shot her—over a demon! Look at him, he's perfectly fine!”

Eames rubbed his temples. He'd shot a demon to protect another demon, and there was some kind of monstrous and not-at-all-funny irony in that, and he was confused.

“She's fine too.” He forced the words out. “she was threatening to eat Arthur even after I made the shot.”

For a moment Eames thought that Dom would strangle him with his bare hands, but the other man just spat on the floor with disgust.

“So what if she ate him...” Dom stopped and corrected himself, “if _it_ ate him. It's a demon, Eames! You blind idiot... or traitor... don't you see that it's a demon? He brainwashed you, and you're willing to kill a human being, just to please him?”

Eames felt rage flood his head, clouding his mind, crowding out his feelings of guilt and uncertainty.

“You know, I came here to help you and Mal,” he said through gritted teeth,” even though you lied to me, withheld information... and it was your fault that you ended up in this mess, not mine!”

“And now you ruined everything! He—he ruined everything!” Dom took another step forward, as if he really did mean to strangle Eames. “We came here, as we were ordered, and we were planning to talk and save Mal, and now what? Now what, Eames?! God...” he pressed his palms into his face, “I hate you. Go to hell, to hell where your lover belongs. I'll save Mal myself.”

Eames almost struck him, almost cracked his skull for such words.

“If you're so sure that you can save her alone, then fine,” he said quietly, “but if you ever switch on your brain and realize that you won't be able to do this without help, I'll help you.”

Dom took a deep breath, no doubt to say something angry and full of condemnation, but then he exhaled loudly and deflated, like a fuse suddenly petering out.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he said, sounding lost. It was as if the flash of anger took all the energy out of him, leaving only fear and despair. “A decent plan, which will work.”

Eames rubbed his chest, where invisible iron bands seemed to be squeezing his lungs and heart, making it hard to breathe. He glanced at Arthur—he was sitting in an armchair and watching them unblinkingly, his face empty and expressionless, and maybe... maybe Dom was right. Wasn't a human life more important than the well-being of a demon? Could Eames really trust a demon? Treat him as if he... as if he was alive?

Eames felt something twisting inside him, a vague, restless thought, which he couldn't quite pin down and examine, and for the first time in a long while the line between wrong and right stopped being clear and simple, and he tried not to think about it, that he would've shot Mal anyway, _anyway_ , a second time, and a third, fourth, fifth...

_I'm not a traitor_ , said Eames in his head, loudly. He wanted to believe this.

“I know what we need to do,” Arthur announced.

Eames was just opening his mouth to say something, although god knows, he had no idea what to say to Arthur and how to react to any ideas coming from him, and he still hadn't asked Arthur all the questions that were crowding inside him, eager to slip off the tip of his tongue...

But Dom didn't let him have his say.

“No!” he snarled. “No, and I swear, demon, if you...”

“Enough,” said Arthur.

There was no irritation in his voice, but Dom suddenly shut up and pressed his hand to his mouth with an expression of such astonishment, that at any other time Eames would have snapped a picture with his phone, for future blackmail or mockery. But now Eames reached not for his phone, but for his gun, even though a pistol was useless against Arthur... and it had never, in the past seventeen years, ever occurred to Eames to shoot at him.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, as if he could read his thoughts. Well, actually, he could read thoughts—or at least his body language. And he knew Eames very well, better than anyone alive.

“Will you listen?” he asked.

Eames bit his lip. Arthur always gave good advice, but this job... This job, on which Mal's life depended, on which Dom depended, who was Eames's best friend... this job had gone south from the very beginning. Arthur was pursuing his own goals. Isn't that what demons do? The lives of some humans are not important to them.

But Eames was human, and should be on the side of human beings, right?

Eames felt like his insides were being torn apart by his inability to decide what was good and what was bad... and yet, Arthur was a demon.

“No,” Eames decided. “No. I... we can't trust you.”

He'd said this before. Many times, actually, but somehow, the words have never touched him to the quick as much as they did now. Arthur stared at him for a few seconds, and Eames was ready for anything—that he would disappear, or incinerate him and Dom on the spot, or say something spiteful. But Arthur only nodded and leaned back in the armchair.

“You're done for!” Dom regained his power of speech with a loud inhalation... speaking of people with no instinct of self-preservation. And no, it had nothing to do with Mal—Dom had always been like that.

But now Eames was fed up with it.

“Dom, you need to take a nap for a couple of hours,” he said, “then you'll be able to think a little better, and we'll come up with something.”

_Come up with some way to rescue Mal_. But Eames decided not to mention her name again, because if he did, Dom might refuse to sleep, and would instead tear off to that goddamn hotel right now, and with no plan.

Even as it was, it took him ten minutes to calm him down.

All that time, Arthur sat with one leg crossed over the other, and said nothing.

-~-~-~-

“I want to be alone,” Eames said, turning away and pulling off his t-shirt.

He couldn't make himself look at Arthur. Eames was torn between conflicting feelings and thoughts, and he was afraid that he might say something stupid—or, on the contrary, start apologizing.

“But I _don't_.” Arthur rose slowly from the chair.

Eames was taken aback: the last thing he was expecting was this simple statement, this ordinary expression of emotions and desires. All his conversations with Arthur either had a false bottom—implications and hints hidden one under the other—or tread a fine line between love and insult.

But his hesitation quickly grew into anger. Arthur was playing with him, pursuing his own goals, and Eames was angry, _so angry_ , at him, at his own trust in him, at himself for choosing him over Mal...

“What have you done, Arthur?” he asked bitterly. “Why did you start all this? I thought you would help us...”

“Just you,” Arthur interrupted. “And I _am_ helping.”

Eames choked with anger.

“Helping? By riling the monster up, provoking it? By killing Mal?”

“I was provoking it,” said Arthur slowly and distinctly, ”because if that thing uses its powers, it can't restore them unless it eats.”

Eames bit his lip. That made sense, but still—Mal.

“I knew it. You know something and you're not saying.”

“But you said yourself that you won't listen.”

Eames flushed red.

“And Mal? What about the risk to her?”

“You're the one who shot her,” said Arthur sharply, and the rage, which had left Eames for a moment, flooded through him again. “I don't understand you, Eames. You never loved her, you didn't even like her. Where is this sudden concern coming from?”

“That's not true!”

“It is,” Arthur smiled, but it seemed that he was irritated as well, though what, in the name of all that's holy, could _he_ be irritated about? “You can lie to your partner all you want, but not to me. You never liked his wife, you thought she was annoying, shallow, and...”

“Shut up.” Eames shuddered. As always, Arthur seemed to lift the thoughts right out of his head and say them out loud, and he wanted to believe that it was magic, telepathy, anything supernatural. But the truth was that he knew Eames really well, too well, actually. Eames never had any love for Mal, never, but was that any excuse? Was it an excuse to choose a demon over a human being? Wasn't Eames supposed to be protecting people from monsters, regardless of whether he liked them or not? Otherwise, how was he different from a demon? Eames used to believe that this relationship was not corrupting him, was not blackening his own soul, but now he was overcome with doubts. And even worse was that nasty little thought, that nagging splinter: y _ou don't regret it_. He didn't regret it! He should have, he was obligated to feel guilty, but he didn't, and because of that, he did, and felt like he would go insane from this horrible conflict. “Shut up, you don't understand what it means to be humane. You're happy when people die and their souls go to hell, you would have done it to me a long time ago if...”

“Don't make me angry, Eames,” Arthur warned in a cold voice, and Eames could sense the tension behind that calm gaze and still face.

“Or what?” he hissed, taking a step forward and grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. He had a passing thought that their perverted relationship was about to end there and then, because before getting insolent with Arthur, he should have first hidden away a pentagram and a pint of holy water, and Eames was too quick to forget what kind of monster was hiding in that body. “You'll kill me on spot? You'll hex me, or whatever it is you demons usually do? Depending on what it is that you really need me for...” his voice wavered as he curled his hand around Arthur's cheek and looked into his eyes, trying to suppress the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm him. “Because it's not likely to be for this, is it Arthur?”

And he kissed Arthur. It was a stupid, impulsive action, and Eames hadn't even wanted to do it, until he actually did it—until he latched onto that mouth with his lips—because among all the emotions jostling inside him, lust was far from uppermost. But his rage demanded some kind of outlet, even such an awkward one. If he could inflict pain with a kiss, Eames would have done it without a second thought.

Arthur, on the other hand, had no such preconceptions—he was clearly able and willing to inflict pain by a thousand different methods, even the most innocuous. He bit at Eames's lip until he drew blood, and his fingers clenched around Eames's wrist so hard that the bones crunched.

Eames lit up like a torch. Just a moment ago he was boiling with hatred, fantasizing of dunking Arthur in holy water, of shutting him up in any way possible, as long as he didn't have to hear the truth. Now suddenly a fierce yearning swept away all other thoughts, like a huge, powerful wave. Eames would have liked to say that it was a spell, nothing more than goddamn sorcery, except Arthur always had that effect on him.

Like poison.

Stretching up, he pulled off his t-shirt and threw it aside, opened the fly on his jeans, and in the same moment Arthur's hands ended up on his stomach, covering the tattoos. It seemed to Eames that they were more sensitive than the rest of his skin—or maybe the touches of the demon disturbed them—and he closed his eyes, barely holding back his moans. They haven't even undressed yet, and he was already turned on, like a teenager.

It was insanity, total insanity.

Eames didn't know how long the kisses lasted—he fell out of reality for a few minutes or hours—but their clothes seemed to disappear on their own, and Arthur's skin was hot, as usual. It burned in contrast with the bedspread, which was cool against Eames's back as he fell onto it.

“You think I love you?” he whispered desperately, looking into Arthur's eyes, breathing against his lips.

Arthur blinked, the bright overhead light throwing shadows from his eyelashes against his cheeks, long and dark, like smudges of makeup.

“Not yet,” he answered. He bit his lip, and stroked Eames's forehead with his fingers, pushing his hair back. “But it doesn't matter.”

The moment of that strange, tense tenderness stretched out, then ended abruptly when he leaned down toward Eames's lips. His body was heavy, heavier than it should have been given his height and build, but Eames had gotten used to that a long time ago. Used to the heaviness, the heat, the greed with which Arthur made love, and the way the protective tattoos and amulets itched and prickled, trying in vain, again and again, to warn him of danger.

Eames threw all these meaningless trivialities out of his head. If he'd used his head even once, really used it, then he would have never ended up in bed with a demon in the first place. And Eames... Eames was not ready to give up this thing between them—whatever it was. So he simply stopped thinking and grabbed Arthur's hips instead, pulling him closer, and moaned, breathing out something incoherent, because their bodies fit together perfectly.

_Perfectly._

Arthur bit down on his nipple, traced the pentagram above his heart with his tongue, and Eames saw black spots dance across his vision. His hips arched up involuntarily. The pressure made him breathless, made him stretch up, seeking any contact he could get, while his hands roamed over Arthur's shoulders and back. Maybe Arthur was a bit of a masochist, maybe the sigils tickled his nerves or burned his skin, maybe somewhere in the depth of his soul—or whatever passed for a soul in his case—he was also turned on by danger.

Maybe he just liked Eames, in spite of the sigils. Maybe...

Maybe it was time for Eames to realize something. This thought sneaked in, but then a wave crashed over Eames, and the thought vanished without a trace.

-~-~-~-

Eames felt emptied out. Was it a pleasant emptiness, or a frightening one? He hadn't decided yet, but the nervous tension and fatigue seemed to finally get to him, and the sex had not energized him at all.

His anger passed as well, dissolved, leaving behind only worry and guilt.

Guilt over his lack of guilt, and shit, Eames wasn't about to start thinking about that again.

“Your plan,” he said, clearing his throat. Arthur was lying on his stomach next to him, and he now turned his head to look at Eames, coldly, as he so rarely looked at him. _He won't say_ , Eames realized. He'd offered his help once, for free, and even his 'attachment' to Eames won't make him offer it again. Not after Eames took Dom's side. “Was it safe?”

“For you,” Arthur replied.

That was... the answer he expected. Arthur had no intention of rescuing Mal or protecting Dom, of course not.

“What's in it for you, anyway? Why did you come?” Eames asked directly.

Arthur sat up, pulled the blanket over his knees—slowly, as if he needed time to consider.

“I do have a material interest,” he sounded calm, even detached. “It has nothing to do with you.”

Eames sat up as well. He felt awkward.

“Anyway, I wouldn't agree to anything that was dangerous for my friends.” It almost sounded like an excuse, and Eames bit down on his tongue to stop himself from making excuses _for real_.

He knew perfectly well what Arthur would say to this: that his friends were already in danger, to be honest, especially Mal, that he didn't have much of a choice, that Eames and Dom didn't actually have any plan at all, much less a safe one.

But Arthur drew himself up, looked into Eames's eyes, and said:

“I'll offer you a deal.”

Okay, it seems that Arthur was pissed off at Eames for real. He pressed his lips together, stifling the first reply that came to his mind, but Arthur continued to look at him and say nothing, so he had to open his mouth after all:

“What kind of deal?”

Under the blanket, his hand slid up from his stomach to his chest, covering the protective tattoos, as if this simple gesture could make them more secure. Arthur could ask for the thing that Eames could not give—wouldn't want to give, not even for Mal, or for Dom. Not even for Dom's _soul_ , Eames remembered bitterly.

He didn't think that he could make a different choice now.

He was probably a shitty friend.

“You're a good friend.” It didn't sound like a compliment the way Arthur said it. “Too good.”

Eames tightened his fingers on Arthur's knee, hard enough to leave bruises. Bruises which will never appear—Arthur would not allow it.

“Don't you dare read my thoughts.”

“I don't need to read your thoughts, it's all written on your face.” Arthur leaned forward, and for a moment their lips almost touched, and Arthur's black pupils were all that Eames could see. “And why would you even drive up here, if not to assuage some imaginary guilt.”

Eames opened his mouth to say something rude and unforgivable, something like _I should have left you in my father's hands_ , but instead he repeated:

“What kind of deal?”

He would never leave Arthur in a trap. Not then, and definitely not now. Even if Arthur swore he would kill him as soon as he got free.

“I'll help you with your idiotic plan, assuming you ever come up with one.” Arthur smiled charmingly, and Eames shuddered. No, Arthur was definitely not going to encourage him, or tell him to believe in himself, not anytime today, considering his opinion of their as yet nonexistent plan. And he may have a point, too. “To get it over with as soon as possible.”

“We'll have a decent plan,” Eames said stubbornly, just for the sake of arguing.

Arthur's smile widened.

“Of course, dear.”

Eames was so tired that he couldn't even tell if Arthur was still mad at him, or if he'd moved on to amusing himself at his expense. But he did consider the offer with all possible thoroughness.

“With our plan. Any plan that we come up with and consider appropriate?” he clarified.

“Any plan.”

“Even if it is, according to you, idiotic.”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders.

“Wouldn't be the first time, light of my life.”

_Probably still mad, then._

“And you'll protect Dom and Mal.”

“I can't guarantee this,” Arthur said. “There's still an evil, hungry ancient divinity out there, in case you haven't noticed. But I can promise to try.”

This was better than Eames expected, and his mood began to fall rapidly. No doubt Arthur would ask for a steep price.

“You'll come with us today, with me and Dom, you'll help us carry out our plan, no matter now stupid or difficult it seems to you, and you'll tell me about any risks that you notice. You won't sacrifice Dom or Mal, won't put them in danger, and you will try to save them, if something should happen, and you'll help us get rid of that thing.” Eames went over it again slowly and methodically, trying to sound out anything that he might have missed.

Arthur squinted, thinking it over, and then nodded.

“Yes.”

“And... what do you want in return?”

“One time... no, twice... you will say 'yes' to me.”

“What?”

“You will say 'yes' to me two times. No matter what I ask for.” Arthur's gaze was very grave. “I won't tell you what I'm going to ask. But I won't demand your soul and—oh, I can guess what you're thinking right now—I won't try to incline you towards evil,” he ended sarcastically. But this sarcasm was just about as far away from humor as were Eames's frantic thoughts.

The condition was... impossible. Just 'yes' to any request, and Arthur refused to say in advance what he's planning to ask for?

“Absolutely not!”

“Suit yourself.” Arthur leaned down over the side of the bed, providing Eames with a view at a rather interesting angle, but Eames was so tense that he couldn't even properly appreciate it. “This time I'm not going to bargain.”

And he meant it, Eames realized. Not this time. Something happened that day, and Arthur had become noticeably more distant. Even now, as he sat in Eames's bed, pulling on the t-shirt that he took out of Eames's bag, he seemed like a stranger.

Eames almost said no. Almost. But disturbing thoughts, nasty and annoying, kept crawling into his head. He refused to make a sacrifice for his friends last time, and everything turned out okay, but what if it hadn't? He had thought only of himself, and even though he'd always fancied himself generous and selfless, a true defender of the afflicted, but how was he better than... a demon?

“Fine,” he blurted out before he could change his mind, “I agree!”

Arthur glanced at him with a blank expression as he pulled the t-shirt collar over his head, then rummaged under the blanket and extracted his notebook. He moved the bookmark. He leaned down to Eames again—his lips gave off heat, and Eames was so scared, and excited, and dumbfounded, that it didn't even occur to him to resist.

“Then let's seal the deal with a kiss,” whispered Arthur.

Eames felt his fingers on the back of his head, on his hip, harsh and demanding. Arthur's tongue slipped into his mouth, intoxicating him, and if deals were made _after_ the kiss, Arthur would have much bigger profits, he would be a millionaire by hell's standards...

“Eames!” The door crashed into the wall, and a familiar voice immediately brought Eames back to his senses. “I came up with a plan... Eames? What the fuck?!”

Actually, yes. What the actual fuck.

-~-~-~-

Actually, the plan was kinda cute. That's what Eames said to himself, and if someone were to interrogate him, he would insist on this to the very end. Cute.

Well, aside from a few small risks. Tiny little risks. Dom just barely mentioned them—after he was done screaming his fill, of course. Eames began to suspect that sometime soon Arthur would simply kill Dom Cobb and pretend that he never existed in the first place.

But, thanks to the contract, it would not happen that day.

Therefore, after expressing the full extent of his indignation, Dom finally got around to explaining his plan.

“Remember I told you about that ritual in Miles's book?” He was ignoring Arthur so carefully that it was almost comical. Well, he started out by demanding that Arthur “take a long walk to hell, or where the sun don't shine,” but by that time Eames was sick and tired of arguments, so Dom had to shut up and resign himself to Arthur's presence. “You know, the one that can expel that piece of shit from the body?”

Eames tore his gaze away from the fancy Starbucks coffee that Arthur was calmly sipping. There was no Starbucks in this hellhole, and if Arthur was able to pull coffee out of thin air, he could've at least gotten a cup for Eames.

“Yes,” Eames said, “I remember. But, based on what you said, it sounded less like 'expel the piece of shit' and more like 'move the piece of shit from one body to another.' I don't think we'll be able to find any volunteers.”

“Well... we could use one of us for the ritual... Hold on now!” Dom put his hands up. Apparently Eames's facial expression spoke for itself. “Just as a distraction! The demon will _think_ that it can possess one of us, but we won't let it. We'll destroy it before that happens, while it has no body.”

“And how are we going to destroy it?” Eames decided not to nitpick on this 'let's use one of us' idea, in light of the bigger problem.

_Destroy the demon, that's just great!_ Because it's so easy—to just go and destroy an ancient man-eating divinity. Eames glanced sideways at Arthur once again, but he'd made himself comfortable in what must have been his favorite armchair, and was sipping his goddamn coffee. All he needed was a croissant and a newspaper, and he would be the perfect image of comfort and complete relaxation.

“Fire!” blurted out Cobb, waving his arms. He seemed a bit too excited, overall. Nothing strange about that, given the circumstances, but Eames had hoped that a short rest would put his friend in order and allow him to think a bit more reasonably. At this point, they needed all the concentration they could pull together. “We could burn it, and no one will suffer! Mal will be free...” he stammered to a stop, and Eames almost agreed right then and there. Once again guilt was starting to crawl up his throat. Dom was going insane over his wife, and his best friend was waffling over whether to help him or not. “We'll take a couple of our canisters, I brought them with us, and anyway, there must be a few in your car, too. The demon is afraid of fire. It'll work, Eames.”

Actually... actually the plan wasn't that horrible. Eames wasn't happy about the idea of being bait for an angry godling, but at least it spread the risks out evenly. Arthur's plan—which he never did share—clearly presumed the possible death of Dom, and Mal, whereas Dom's plan... well, it might even work.

“Arthur?” he asked.

Arthur sighed and set his cup down on an armrest.

“A demon can possess a suitable body very quickly. I'm speaking from personal experience,” there was no sarcasm in his voice. “Stopping the ritual, lighting a flame, and spraying gas from a canister—if I understood correctly the type of canisters in question—will take a few seconds. Maybe more, depending on the ritual.”

“It will all work,” Dom repeated emphatically. He clearly restrained himself with difficulty, but he _did_ restrain himself, and Eames appreciated it. “Will you come with me?”

“But do we have a chance?” Eames reached over and picked up the cup, discovered to his relief that there was still some coal-black coffee left inside, and took a gulp. The coffee was lukewarm, but still energized him, and Arthur didn't even complain—and Eames was going to enjoy any small pleasures on this hideous day to the fullest. “Any chance that everything will work out?”

“About thirty percent,” Arthur said reluctantly.

Low, horribly low, but Dom's face was practically screaming 'you see!' and how could Eames refuse to go with him? Who else could Dom turn to? And Eames would never forgive himself if he didn't at least try.

“Okay,” Eames said. And added with fake enthusiasm, “Let's kick that shithead's ass!”

Because that's the kind of bullshit that Dom expected from him.

-~-~-~-

They started out ten minutes later. Arthur waited until Dom stepped out the door, then stood in Eames's path and stared into his eyes. Eames prepared himself for a new round of arguments as to why he should leave his friends in the lurch, even for some kind of nasty trick, but he didn't even have time to tense up—Arthur put his hand into his suit pocket and took out a small container. Nothing fancy, just an ordinary vial with some orange liquid inside.

“Please drink this,” regardless of the polite wording, it sounded more like an order than a request.

“Why?”

Arthur's lips drew into a thin line.

“My payment. You promised to comply, so now drink.”

Eames almost dropped the vial, which he'd already taken from Arthur's hand. He... he would have drunk it anyway... well, maybe after asking a few questions, since Arthur was acting so strange. He always took anything that Arthur gave him, only making sure that he didn't accidentally make a deal, and Arthur had never harmed him. And what, was he going to now?

Or did he not expect Eames to agree?

“And the second request?” Eames asked as he twisted off the stopper.

“And the second request I'll save for later.”

And Arthur left without waiting for Eames to drink. He upended the vial into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste, and quickly washed it down with cold coffee.

There was something very, very wrong with their relationship.

-~-~-~-

“It's not that I'm trying to hurry you along,” Arthur tapped a nail against the glass of his watch, “but it'll be dawn soon. Does this ritual really need to be discussed at such length, or do you just like to chitchat?”

Eames refrained from snarling back—partially because Arthur was right, and partially because he was already so tense he was afraid he would explode. Dom, strangely enough, also held his tongue. Eames had never seen him so keyed up before, but no surprise there—the lives of his wife and future child were at stake. But why was Dom constantly throwing nervous glances at Arthur, when he thought the other wasn't looking? The insane pagan god is what he should have been worrying about.

Eames took a deep breath, held it, breathed out. Pretty soon he'll start inventing secret plans and motives for Dom, and that was not normal. Dominick had every right to be nervous.

They were hiding in the shadow of an abandoned store, across the road from the chain link fence surrounding the construction site. Arthur said that the territory controlled by the divinity was bounded by the road, and that they could even discuss their plans in open sight, but Eames felt much more comfortable behind the store building. He felt kind of awkward discussing their murder plans in sight (so to speak) of the intended victim.

He was being a gentleman, that's what it was, even if Arthur gave him a look like he thought he was an idiot.

“We're done now,” said Eames, shaking the jar of dried herbs. Dom assured him that all you had to do was read an incantation and throw this grass on the demon and—bang!—the asshole will pop right out of the body, like a cork from a bottle. Dom didn't claim, though, that the demon would stand around and calmly wait for them to get close enough to sprinkle this dried salad over it, but they were hoping to resolve this insignificant little detail when they got there. It was useless to plan that part anyway. “After all, it shouldn't be that hard. You said the demon is hungry and can't wait to escape.” He smiled to try to diffuse the heavy atmosphere.

But actually, Eames was not at all eager to come face to face with Mal.

What if she was already dead?

Arthur nodded indulgently.

“Don't call that filth a demon.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, babe,” Eames pressed a hand to his chest, “I didn't mean to insult your race...”

“Yes you did.” Arthur wasn't buying it.

“Only a little bit. And what would I need to promise to get you to rile up that not-at-all-demonic creature again, so that we wouldn't have to sprinkle it with anything?” Eames put the jar in his pocket. “How about my innocence?”

“You'd have to get one first.”

“Eww, Arthur, innocence is not just a synonym for physiological virginity, you of all people should know that. And by the way...”

“By the way, we're here to work,” Dom interrupted grimly. Even though he was the one who had been checking and rechecking their readiness for the ritual, the contents of the jars, the level of gas in the canisters... He even double-checked his handkerchief, as if the demon might reprimand him for having a dirty nose. “Let's go.”

And, without waiting for Eames, he ran across the lightless road, paused for a second near the dark mass of bushes, then dove into the tangle of branches. Eames exchanged a glance with Arthur—who had the same puzzled look in his eyes—and tore off after Dom.

The bushes looked... different. Eames couldn't have described how they differed from the same bushes that grew here three hours ago, but now every time he touched the leaves, which were sticky and for some reason warm, he felt an almost squeamish discomfort.

The air smelled like snakes and insect chitin.

“Eames?” Dom's whisper came out of the darkness. Thank god he hadn't gone far on his own.

Eames took a few steps in the direction of his voice, carefully moving the branches aside. He was shivering from disgust, and a foreboding of something horrible. Or possibly tragic. Any other night he would have listened to his intuition and hightailed it out of there, and forced Dom to leave as well, but today they had no choice.

Eames almost screamed when fingers grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward, and only a moment later Eames realized that it was Arthur who had caught up to him.

“Go back!” Arthur wasn't whispering. No, he was speaking out loud, and his face didn't have a trace of its previous calm. “Eames, get out of here.”

“What?...”

“What you heard.” Arthur shoved him backward, and at the same time a dull light illuminated the bushes, and Eames, and Arthur, and Dom standing two feet away from them, looking frightened and for some reason guilty. “You idiot! You came here?”

“Maybe we should talk quieter?” suggested Eames, rubbing his shoulder, where Arthur's fingers had most likely left bruises.

“Oh, that would be entirely pointless,” replied Arthur acerbically.

In the blink of an eye he was next to Dom and grabbed him by the throat, and Eames suddenly understood—this was the end of Dom. They hadn't even had time to do anything, and their plan was already going to shit, and that's without counting the motherfucking Aztec god, which was still somewhere around!

“You can't kill him!” Eames yelled. “The contract!”

Arthur dropped Dom so fast, it was like he was made of holy water. He even took a step back.

“The contract says that I won't 'put him in danger' and will 'try to save him'—will _try_ , Eames.” But at least he was no longer trying to strangle Dom right on the spot. “Who did you bring here?”

“I didn't bring anyone!” Dom was coughing, but speaking pretty coherently.

All this noise, and light, and strange confrontations regarding which no one deigned to inform Eames... weren't they trying to _sneak up_ on someone? So that they would _not be noticed_?

“What. The fuck. Is going on?!” Eames lost his composure.

“Nothing much, darling,” drawled Arthur, looking Dom up and down with a predatory stare. “Your buddy could think of nothing better to do than to feed this creature, so your pathetic idea just fell through, and he'd be lucky if his wife hasn't already become a late dinner—or an early breakfast, whichever you prefer. Oh, and another minor detail—we're already expected, of course.”

None of this made any sense, but it still sounded absolutely foul.

Dom would never do anything like that.

“That's a lie!” Dom declared.

Eames barely refrained from exclaiming “You see!” But Arthur seemed just a bit too angry.

“I put a spell on the perimeter, to make people avoid it,” he said through his teeth. “But this useless piece of meat showed up here, and he was followed by a whole pile of food for our lovely, hungry friend, and you know, I don't want you to have any part in his plan anymore.”

Eames usually put two and two together pretty quickly, and Arthur wouldn't be making this up—a spell on the perimeter, huh—and Dom looked kind of guilty... But Mal was still out there.

“We'll sort that out later,” said Eames coldly, “did you hear me, Dom?”

“I just wanted to check everything, how was I supposed to know that someone else...”

“Later, Dom.” Eames carefully insinuated himself between him and Arthur. “You can't refuse, you promised to help! Today. And I already paid you... well, partially.”

“Did you listen to what I said?”

“You were the one who offered the contract, Arthur,” Eames said softly. “It was your idea.”

Arthur groaned loudly, rolling his eyes skyward and rubbing his temples.

“I'll be a laughingstock, honest to god,” he muttered. “It's like a bad joke, to make such a ridiculous deal. I should've just...”

He didn't get a chance to finish. A hot, dry wind, like the breath of the desert, rolled over them and then back, leaving a burning sensation on their skin and shriveled leaves on the ground all around them. And now the entire hotel was visible, nothing blocking it from view. Arthur was right.

They were expected.

Eames had thought that after so many years working as a hunter he was used to everything, but the scene revealed to their eyes made even him nauseous. Arthur's strange words and accusations suddenly began to make sense.

Eames didn't know who these people had been, but he suddenly felt like punching Dom, if it was really his mistake that led to _this_. The concrete block—an improvised altar—was covered in bodies and body parts, and at first, Eames thought there were at least a dozen corpses there. But no, there were actually only three or four, not that this was much of a relief. Eames kept staring at the bodies, at the blood and protruding innards, anything to avoid looking at... Mal.

Mal was still wearing the curtain, except now she also had plastic garlands draped around her neck. And it wasn't fucking funny, because Mal, wearing a curtain and garlands, with a round belly—not pregnant, but _stuffed full_ —sat enthroned on the blood-drenched altar, among corpses and meat. With a smile on her face which made her look demented.

Like a demented demon.

“It's so great that you came back!” she singsonged. There was now a weird, unfamiliar accent in her voice. “You don't look so good, bunny. Would you like a bite to eat?”

Eames didn't know which one of them was supposed to be 'bunny', and he didn't want to know either. Regardless, he doubted that any of them would be tempted by the offer.

“No, thank you,” said Arthur graciously. It was adorable how he had no trouble remaining a gentleman. “We've had dinner.”

“Instead of finding me a baby?” Mal pouted her lips, and for a moment looked so much like her real self that Eames shuddered. “Well, never mind, bunny already brought me a snack.”

Eames threw a murderous look at Dom, but the other man showed no reaction to any of it. Motionless and stiff, he stood there, staring at Mal, just like a real rabbit at a python. Eames thought it was highly doubtful that Dom remembered their plan.

His own plan to expel the demon—the Aztec ritual, the herbs, and all that. Eames mechanically repeated the words of the incantation in his head. He felt his lips moving. In order to sprinkle the demon with the herbs, they needed to shorten the distance at least in half—otherwise, Eames wouldn't have bet on his ability to hit the mark. In theory, one of them should have been distracting Mal, while the other made the throw, but it looked like there was no point in counting on Dom.

“Very generous of 'bunny',” said Arthur sarcastically. Here was someone at least who had no trouble distracting the demon. If only Eames could be sure that Arthur wouldn't screw everything up at the last moment! He did sign the contract, of course, but if anyone could wiggle out of it, it was Arthur. “No wonder he kept hurrying us. He couldn't wait to canoodle with his sweetheart.”

“Screw you!” Dom finally snapped out of it.

Maybe he didn't completely forget their plan in his distress, after all. Eames took a minuscule step forward, toward the demon. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dom ready the canister with flammable gas. Good boy.

“Well, Arthur is telling the truth,” drawled Eames. “It's like there's a honeypot for you here. I'm starting to think that you find your wife more attractive as a demon.” He took a couple more steps. “Why else would you be feeding her up?”

Dom threw him a look so furious, it was a miracle Eames's hair didn't catch fire. The poor man was opening and closing his mouth, but clearly didn't know what to say to something like this.

But Arthur did know.

“He's only pretending that he doesn't like demons. You know, the ones who protest the most...”

Eames groped for the can in his pocket, trying to unscrew the lid with one hand. It wasn't such an easy task; he should have practiced ahead of time. The demon was still pretty far away, but if he aimed carefully—and got lucky—it was a realistic shot.

“Oh this is just wonderful!” exclaimed pseudo-Mal. “We'll get along so marvelously, bunny! We just have to get rid of these annoying fools.” She tipped a delicate, blood-soaked finger in Eames's direction, then licked that same finger thoughtfully. “Anyway, if you expel me your wife will die, and the little baby,” she patted her stomach, “well, I'll eat it either way.”

Eames grimaced, because it was all just too gruesome. He took another step, throwing the lid off the can at the same time. His fingers were slippery with sweat, but Eames was clutching the jar as if his life depended on it.

Come to think of it, that wasn't too far from the truth.

“You're lying!” Dom had gone pale.

“Nope,” the demon smirked, “your she-bunny has left the building a long time ago. Thanks to deadshot here.”

“It's lying,” Arthur said imperturbably. Eames pulled out the can, slowly and carefully. He didn't know if the demon was telling the truth or not, or if he should believe Arthur, but none of that was important. This creature who chowed down on people needed to disappear, this he was sure of.

“It's an ancient godling, after all,” Arthur went on, “and they're tricky little things.”

“I'll eat you last,” pseudo-Mal promised. “Slowly.”

“You'll choke.”

Eames rattled off the words of the ritual in a whisper, and took the last step. The can was scorching his fingers, as if he was holding an open flame in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back his arm, taking aim.

“Dom, the plan!”

Now, right now, Dom will fire up the gas canister, and that would be the end of the demon... But Dom suddenly grabbed Eames's elbow and yanked him backward, making him lose his balance. The can almost slipped out of his fingers and tipped precariously. Eames cursed and righted himself, still not understanding what Dominick was up to, when the other started to mumble rapidly, almost incoherently:

“No, no, hold on, we have to figure out... what if it's not lying? If Mal won't be saved we have to come up with something else... Eames, don't you dare!”

Eames shook off his hand, freeing himself from his grip, because as soon as they start listening to the demon, their whole plan will be shot to hell, and someone could die. Shit, they could all die anyway, and Eames still believed Arthur more, even if he shouldn't. This plan was their only chance at victory, and so many people had already died because of their mistakes, and no, Eames was done wasting time!

“Get the fire ready!” he snapped.

“No, Eames...”

“What are you...” Mal slid off the altar, her face filling with suspicion, and Eames didn't intend to wait until she figured it all out. They were already lucky that this demon wasn't particularly bright.

Swinging with all his might, he tossed the can right in the demon's face. The jar crashed into her forehead with a deafening clang, cracked, and fell apart, showering her in grassy litter.

The demon screeched, a piercing sound that made Eames's ears pop, then a scorching breath hit him in the face, so hot that it seemed to singe his eyebrows and lashes.

“Fire, Dom!” yelled Eames, groping for his own canister and matches. A dense grayish fog burst out of Mal's mouth, and her body hit the ground like an empty sack. Dead or alive—Eames couldn't tell. He stepped back, finally found his own canister, realizing that he won't have time to light it... “Dom!”

But Dom—who was the one who suggested the plan in the first place, who was a cold-blooded son of a bitch that Eames always counted on and relied on—Dom threw the canister down and rushed over to Mal's fallen form, forgetting the plan completely.

The demon threw itself at him—and suddenly recoiled, as if from a repellent.

“Eames!” Arthur screamed, and for the first time in his life his voice sounded almost frightened, but Eames himself had no time to get scared.

Demons really did move very fast after all. In one barely discernible motion, it ended up next to Eames, then bounced off, as if from an invisible wall, and at the same time, Arthur yelled something at it.

Suddenly the world became a hundred times slower. Eames saw a small transparent sphere, shimmering in the dismal light surrounding the hotel, crash into the gray cloud. He saw the cloud explode in a flash of blinding orange light, but even before that, a thick gray tentacle extended out of the smoke.

And hit Eames in the chest.

He didn't feel pain. He was lifted up into the air, and Eames had time to register surprise before time abruptly returned to normal speed, and at the same time the force of gravity yanked Eames down, onto something hard and very sharp.

The altar, probably, it must have been a corner of the altar, but all thoughts of such detail scattered from the impact.

-~-~-~-

For a moment Eames was wrapped in darkness, as if the world had been switched off, but it was turned back on immediately, in strange lurching chunks that refused to coalesce. And then it was turned off again for a second, to reappear tilted sideways, with a nasty, annoying buzzing somewhere in the distance. Or maybe this buzzing was in Eames's head.

“...Eames!...” the kaleidoscope pieces suddenly resolved into Arthur, in a quaint and slightly crooked way, and he was saying something, but the little pieces of darkness scattering out of his mouth just wouldn't arrange themselves into words. “...ms! Eames!...”

Eames really wanted to answer him, to say something heartfelt, but of course he wasn't dying, so he could say this heartfelt something at any moment, later, when he had a chance to rest and gather his thoughts. Arthur was so beautiful, so, so...

“Eames!” 'so, so' Arthur smacked Eames on the cheek with full force, and for a short time the world regained sharpness and clarity, and with them came pain. “You promised. You promised, so open your mouth and say it!”

Eames had no clue what he was talking about. Maybe it was something very important, judging by his face and his insistence, but Eames couldn't concentrate well enough to understand him. This is the end, he realized suddenly, and the awareness of death smothered him like a thick stuffy blanket, frightening and calming at the same time. But mostly frightening. A wave of terror and panic flooded through him, and he kept looking and looking at the blur of Arthur's face, because if it disappeared, then Eames would never, never, see it again. Eames was not ready to die.

“Anything... you want...” he said, or tried to, or maybe just thought. Eames's lips were numb, but he really wanted to say at least something, to answer him, since it was so important to Arthur.

Blazing hot hands wrapped around his cheeks, and Arthur's face drew near. His eyes were pitch black, and the last thing that Eames felt was a kiss.

-~-~-~-

Then he...

it seemed like he...

died.

-~-~-~-

Eames screamed when an unimaginably heavy weight crashed down on him, throwing him out of the darkness. Something immensely huge and shapeless filled him from the tips of his toenails to the roots of his hair. It squeezed the thing that was Eames himself from all sides, shrinking it and pushing it aside, until he became tiny-tiny, and hid at the very the bottom of his soul, afraid and ready to disappear at any moment. He was almost hoping for this, because his body was a piece of meat, foreign and unwieldy, and Eames could feel it become more and more cold and dead with each moment.

So Eames tried to scream, but his mouth wouldn't open, his vocal cords didn't even twitch, and the air in his lungs was frozen motionless—and for a short time, a black panic made him lose his ability to think.

He was in a dead body, he was stuck in a corpse, god, god... and it seemed like...

_He wasn't there alone_.

This thought was followed by an enveloping calm—foreign and unnatural, but cozy, like a hug. His mind, freed from panicky thoughts, hovered in emptiness, and the pressure of someone else's essence no longer frightened him.

He was possessed by a demon.

No, he was possessed by _Arthur_ , and even if Eames didn't know yet what was going on, well, at least he wasn't in hell.

“I love your optimism.” Arthur's voice, real or imaginary (Eames wouldn't have bet either way), was full of skepticism. Eames no longer had a mouth to speak with, but he tried to smile... as much as a tiny compressed piece of soul can smile, and Arthur was right, there weren't that many reasons for optimism here. “Get ready...”

A huge fist clenched inside Eames's chest, and he screamed. Really screamed this time, with his own voice, when his body suddenly became _his_ body again, stiff as a board and swamped with pain, and what ever happened to giving a person a heads up before tearing apart their chest?... The fist clenched again, squeezing out molten-hot blood, then again, and with all this torture it took a while for Eames to realize that this unbearable sensation was his own heart beating. Something was moving and roiling in his stomach, and then his lungs expanded, filling with air, and Eames finally passed out.

-~-~-~-

It was as if Eames fell out of his own body, and rose up high, just like certain exalted individuals described in various papers on clinical death and astral travel. He saw himself lying on the ground, bloodied and lifeless, and Arthur's body nearby, and Dom, who was clutching an unconscious (or dead) Mal to his chest, and the gruesome altar piled with bodies. But none of this worried or scared him, as if his human feelings were left behind in his body, and his soul was free of any concerns.

He looked and looked, noting every blade of grass, every bump in the ground, every little hair on Dom's head. And then he was yanked down with incredible force, and...

-~-~-~-

Eames opened his eyes. There was a sky above him, black and covered with tiny stars, and for a few moments he just stared into this peaceful infinity, thinking of nothing, until the events of the past few minutes (or maybe it's been hours) crashed over him again. Eames sat up abruptly, thinking in passing how surprising it was that his head wasn't spinning, that nothing hurt, and that overall, he was full of energy. Weird. Very weird.

He was still near the hotel. He was sitting on wilted, heat-shriveled grass, the building towered right in front of him, the “altar” was still nauseating, and the air smelled like sand, cacti, and blood. Dominick stared at him with huge round eyes, and Mal was stirring in his arms, and was alive, thank god.

The Aztec godling was gone.

Eames was afraid to turn his head...

Arthur—his body—lay nearby, motionless and completely dead. There were no wounds on him, no livor mortis, nothing like that, but Eames could feel that it was a corpse, with that same inner animal sense that always lets you know that the thing next to you is no longer a person, but a lifeless object. And above it (above the dead body, and Eames didn't even have time to become alarmed) swirled black smoke, a thick clot of darkness, spinning endlessly around an invisible center.

_Alive_.

“Arthur,” Eames whispered.

His voice was obeying him, but sounded strange. Eames had never seen Arthur outside of his body, never even tried to imagine how it was or what it was like, but now he felt neither horror nor revulsion. Only concern. Eames raised his hand and tried to touch the smoke. It didn't even occur to him that this might be dangerous. The smoke was warm to the touch and slightly prickly, as if laced with an electric charge, and it quickly pulled back from Eames's hand, draining back into the body.

The sight was mesmerizing and a little scary.

“Arthur?” Eames called louder.

Arthur stirred, rubbed his face with his hands—Eames could not hold back a sigh of relief—coughed, and finally sat up. He appeared to be a little rumpled, but unharmed, and it seems that a body switch was far more harmful to the bodies than the demons, but...

No, Eames wasn't going to think about switching bodies right now, or he would throw up and there would be no conversation. And Eames really, really wanted to talk, and also to get the hell out of there before the police came, and to go home and start pretending as soon as possible that this whole hunt was nothing more than a funny incident.

With a happy end.

Eames didn't notice the movement. Maybe he was too distracted, or he was still a little slow, or maybe he didn't expect any trick from that side, now that the fucking Aztec demon was no longer threatening them all with imminent and painful death. Eames blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Dom was standing nearby, ramrod straight and tense, and some kind of long metal dagger, or stake, glistened dimly in his hand. Eames inhaled sharply, but before he could exhale Dom leaned down and pressed that doohickey to Arthur's neck, and his face was such a tight mixture of desperation and resolve that Eames became truly scared.

“Don't be mad at me,” he was addressing himself only to Eames, and that was the worst part. It meant that he was going to kill Arthur with that very same silly doohickey, and that the time for games and threats was over. “Please, you'll understand everything... as soon as you're rid of the possession... I want to help you!”

Eames didn't need any help, and he opened his mouth to say just that—that it was Dom who was about to be in need of help. But Arthur threw his chin up, as if he wanted to be as far away as possible from that stupid metal screwdriver thing, and he didn't even try to break away or to incinerate Dom on the spot, so Eames swallowed the insults and the sarcasm, and said:

“Wait! Wait, Dom!” his thoughts darted around like mad, searching for some kind of idea, but the ice-cold goosebumps creeping up the nape of his neck made it hard to think rationally. Eames had never imagined himself in this situation. Never even imagined that someone could in all seriousness threaten Arthur. He'll definitely laugh about this nonsense—later. “We've all had a bit of a shock, but let's get ahold of ourselves. Mal is okay...”

“Dom, what are you doing?” Mal, who was 'okay', also appeared in his field of vision, and for a moment Eames thought that Dom would spazz out and stab that thing into Arthur. He leaned forward unconsciously, as if he could disarm the deranged Dominick with his bare hands.

“This demon will do us in!” Dom pressed harder on the hilt, leaving a trail of red. “I just want Eames to understand, so that he doesn't blame me. I'll kill the demon and put an end to this insanity.”

“If you harm his body, he'll wipe you off the face of the earth, you know this,” Eames said as reasonably as he could.

Dom's smile was crooked and ghoulish.

“It's an angel blade, and an angel blade can get rid of this scum for good. For good! You'll be free, Eames, and everything will be like before!”

Eames almost screamed. He could barely process the words. His vision darkened and he was flooded with so much fear that for a few seconds he lost the ability to think. But his instincts acted on their own—his fingers clenched on the grip of his gun and yanked it out, freeing the weapon from its holster, all in the blink of an eye.

“I'll shoot,” Eames said in a dead voice.

The barrel of the gun was pointing right at Mal's forehead. If anyone had ever told him that he would be willing to kill Mal—god forbid!—he would have laughed at that moron. Or punched them in the teeth, depending on the situation. If Eames had even a little time to think or to come to his senses, he would've never had the nerve for such a horror. Possibly.

He wanted to believe this.

But there had been no time, Dom's eyes had acquired that particular certainty which appears moments before the strike, and Eames acted on autopilot.

Mal shrieked.

“You couldn't!..” rasped Dom. He was white as a sheet, but gripped that god-fucking-damned “angel blade” even tighter than before.

The shot thundered out, making Mal yelp once again, and making Dom jump. The bullet flew by, literally a couple of inches from Mal's head, and vanished in the darkness. Maybe it even killed some beetle or lizard.

“I will shoot,” Eames repeated. “I'm not bluffing. I've done it once before.”

He saw the exact moment when Dom understood—yes, Eames really will shoot. Will kill his wife. Over a demon. His face twisted with shock, then with horror, his hands started to shake. Some part of Eames understood him, and this part of him was torn with pain and pity, and also with his own treachery. But the biggest part, decisive and certain, knowing what it needed from life and willing to stand up for it—this part of Eames was holding on tightly to the gun.

“He will destroy you,” said Dom hopelessly. He stepped away slowly, swung his arm, and dropped the angel blade at Eames's feet. “What, will you tell him to kill us now?”

Eames was so angry and scared that he almost opened his mouth to say just that. But he couldn't. Maybe he could have shot Dom himself—now, before he'd had a chance to cool off—but he wouldn't allow a demon to harm human beings.

“No!” he blurted out. “Arthur, please, no.”

Arthur looked up sharply, his eyes dark and enraged, and for a few long, long, moments Eames thought that he would disregard the request. After all, he was a demon, and demons were not prone to tenderhearted urges or benevolence. But Arthur only raised his arm to wipe the blood off his neck, and nodded.

Eames suspected that this wouldn't be the end of the matter, but decided to be content with what he could get, for now. Dom and Mal were alive, Eames himself was alive, Arthur suffered a small scratch and a bruised ego, and maybe there had been a way to settle the matter with fewer casualties, _to save all those people_ , but Eames was too tired to beat himself up over it right now.

“Eames...” said Mal uncertainly.

She hadn't picked the best time for a chat.

“Go,” Eames ordered. “Now.”

He wasn't even that sure of himself, much less of Arthur.

Mal seemed to want to say something else, but Dom tugged on her arm. He didn't look at Eames, didn't say a single word, but Eames knew for a fact—this sudden act of mercy and understanding did not convince him.

Eames couldn't care less.

As soon as Dom and Mal were gone from sight, Eames's bones turned to rubber. He almost fell down, but managed to stay on his feet. He was so tired that it felt like his head was stuffed with hay. And maybe that was for the best. Everything that's happened was just too shocking.

“I wouldn't have fired,” he said in a strangled voice. He didn't know whom he was trying to convince, himself or Arthur, or if his pathetic attempt was working.

He bent down and picked up the blade. It was heavy and cold, but nevertheless didn't seem like a deadly weapon. _Magic wand_. The joke seemed so far away and unfunny right now.

“Okay Eames,” said Arthur, unexpectedly gentle. He got to his feet as well.

“How... how did you do it?” Eames knew that Arthur would understand what he was asking. He had to understand. Biting his lip, he pulled up his shirt, examining his bloodied side and stomach, the dark lines of the sigils—completely whole. A few of the pentagrams were neatly cut, the scratches tiny and almost bloodless. Eames had thought that the demon would not be able to damage them. “Don't they protect against demons?”

“No, Eames.” Arthur came up to him, and slipped a hand under his shirt. His hot palm slid over his back, and Eames realized for the first time that he was cold. “ _This_ protects against demons.”

Eames had no idea what he was talking about. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

“But not from you?”

“Not from me.”

A hint of tension appeared in his voice. Eames thought about their dubious relationship, about the years or even decades when he preferred to think of it all as an exotic, temporary romance, something that tickled the nerves but touched him no deeper. About the fact that Arthur took control of his body, healed him, and let him go, and that, as it turns out, he could have done this at any time, every damn second that he was by his side. But he didn't.

About the fact that it wasn't Arthur who was the weakest link, it wasn't Arthur who was flip-flopping back and forth, it wasn't Arthur who was acting like a pig.

And about the fact that...

“I would have fired,” Eames whispered. His throat constricted suddenly, but a moment later he felt a wave of relief. He admitted it—out loud, he was able to say it out loud. He would have been sorry for the rest of his life, he would've never forgiven himself if he'd killed an innocent woman, but he would have done it. Eames had thought that it would turn him into a monster, but the truth was—he had the right to protect what was dear to him. He stretched, put his arms around Arthur, pulled him close, smiled. “So, will you erase my memory now?”

“That does seem tempting,” Arthur replied.

For some reason, Eames thought that no, he would not wipe his memory.

“It looks like I'll have to find me a new partner. Or a new job.” Eames tried to not get hung up on this point, for now. Whatever will be, will be.

“That wouldn't hurt. This job is bad for your health.”

Eames barked out a short laugh.

“Well, at least you got your angel blade out of it.” He moved away slightly, handing Arthur the 'magic wand'—hilt first, just in case.

“And an Aztec demon.” Arthur pulled a small glass sphere out of an inner pocket and showed it to Eames. “To make up for wasting your payment.”

This time Eames's laugh was loud and sincere.

“You always get yours, don't you darling?”

“Yes I do, _darling_ ,” mocked Arthur.

But he didn't seem too displeased.

Which meant that things weren't so bad.

-~-~-~-

**Epilogue**

Eames pressed down on the doorbell button and stepped back, waiting patiently. He wasn't in any hurry. A few seconds later he heard light footsteps inside, and the door opened.

Mal never did learn to look through the peephole, or to ask who the hell the cat's dragged in. She looked good—healthy and glowing, and nothing like a woman who just got rid of a possession, was killed twice, and returned to earth from heaven. The light green dress that she wore accentuated her beauty, and Eames was so happy to see that she was okay, that he just smiled and didn't even try to speak.

For a few seconds, they both just stood there, looking each other up and down silently, but without the awkwardness usual in these situations. Finally, Mal spoke up.

“Eames?” Her voice sounded happy and a little timid, and her eyes were shining with warmth. “But Dom is not here...”

“I'm here to see you,” Eames said. “I just wanted to know how you're doing.”

“I'm... good. Yeah, good.” She smiled uncertainly and patted her stomach. “And you?”

“Couldn't be better,” said Eames. “Actually, I wanted to apologize.”

Mal frowned, as if she didn't get at first what he was talking about, and then stepped forward and took his hand. Her fingers were warm and soothing.

“You did everything right.” She told him firmly. “Dom doesn't think so, but I do. I had some reservations, but you're a grown man and you know what's best for you. There is nothing wrong with protecting the one you love, I'm sure of it. And also... Dom cheated. He had an amulet, to prevent the demon from possessing him. If it wasn't for that, you wouldn't have gotten hurt.”

Eames sighed. He guessed as much himself.

“Arthur gave me a potion to stop the demon from getting into me. I didn't know, but it doesn't matter. I guess it turns out that we deserved each other.”

Mal laughed, and Eames couldn't help laughing along.

“I heard that you're done with hunting?”

“I found a different job.”

“My father asked me to give you his cell number.” Mal opened the door wider. “He said that you'd be interested in his proposal. Won't you come in?”

“No, I shouldn't.” Eames wasn't sure that he wanted to be a guest in Dom's home.

“I have your favorite tea.”

_Well... why not?_

“So what was it that your father said?” asked Eames, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

It seemed that—completely unexpectedly—he was beginning to like Mal.


End file.
